My dearest Trixie Garcia-on the Dead,
I hope this letter finds you well, as it is an important one. Trixie, I know I forswore my romancification of your luscisousness many months ago. To the heavens I raged, but in the end, surrendered. No more could I darken your door, or peep in your window, or steal your laundry. (I am sorry I stole your laundry and I am very sorry for the things I did to/with/on/in it.)
You needed to be free.
As for me, you needn’t worry. At a burger joint the other day, I saw a woman’s underwear. She was sitting there waiting for her burger, and her skirt was hiked up, and I could see everything from soup to nuts. Not actual nuts: she had a vagina, but the saying still applies.
So, I’m pretty much swimming in it.
But, we can’t lie to ourselves any longer, can we Trixie? What fate has wrought let no restraining order tear asunder. We go together, like your dad and your mom. Or your dad and any of his other wives.
Let’s leave your father out of this.
Our love is immortal, conquering: but, there’s so much I don’t know about you. Do you have children? Upon the commencement of our relationship, may I eat them? That’s how lions do it and, baby: I wanna be your lion. You should know that after eating your children, I would mate with you right the fuck away, so those kids would be replaced as soon as possible. You should know that.
Dare we surrender to our animal selves?
What about the butt? Here’s my opening position: I consider it to be in play. Yours, mine, any that accidentally get in the way. The butt is a great DJ: taking requests, but also surprising you with new stuff you never heard before. How do you feel about the butt? About my butt? Butts in general? Are there hard-and-fast rules, or is there a sliding scale based on rum drinks?
I’m a Pisces.
Thoughts on the Dead
ps Tell Bobby I say hi.